Perfect Spy
by manic-intent
Summary: Perfect spy series: several short fics taking place after Casino Royale. 004 thinks of ten points that make up the perfect spy. [Bond x Villiers, slash]
1. Checklist for the Perfect Spy

Checklist for the perfect spy

1

_What makes a good spy?_

_I have considered this question at length, and I can tell you that the key attributes of a good spy are intelligence, curiosity and good judgment. To make an excellent spy, however…_

004 paused amidst writing his mental biography to unhurriedly, and noiselessly, thumb the safety catch off the special-issue silencer fitted revolver, brace himself with absent ease at the window, draw a bead on the mark, and fire, all in one fluid motion. He was already moving (gun into the bag, mask into the coat pocket, coat into the bag) when the return fire stitched a jagged line into the ancient brickwork beside him. He thinks _Just like Chinese New Year_ as he slips down the barely functional fire escape.

2

_An excellent spy does not stand out in a crowd. Therefore, he is not handsome, nor does he have noticeably striking features; he is plain, not repulsive, not attractive, nor does he look particularly intelligent: above all, he is forgettable. The excellent spy will make you blink and pause, if you ever have the luck to find him, and that is when he makes good his escape._

A group of nervous, black-suited men careened out of the narrow corridor into a crowded thoroughfare of Venice; the gunshot had been lost in the roar of bustling people. As they looked about wildly, a slightly rotund Chinese tourist in a garishly colored Hawaiian shirt and brown slacks looked up myopically from his map, tilting his glasses, and smiled brightly at them. "Ah! You are police, yes? I need to get-to Grand Canal. You know Grand Canal yes?"

"Get lost," the leader growled, shoving the short man out of the way; the glasses unbalanced over the stub nose as he hit the wall. Frightened, the tourist scurried away, squawking in his lingo.

Five minutes of futile searching later, the leader began to scratch absently at his palms. He must have touched some sort of damned plant while looking for Giuseppe's killer. No matter. He'd do one more round of this fucking ancient warren and go back to headquarters. After all, whoever was targeting Mr. White's last known associates was bound to show up there, after a while…

"Boss? You don't look so good," one of the thickset thugs that ran with him ventured, worried.

"I'm feeling just bloody _perfect_," the leader snapped, then frowned when something wet dripped into his mouth, from his lip. Copper… blood? He brought his hand to his mouth, and gasped, when it came away liberally stained crimson.

Just as Andrev collapsed, choking to death on his own life-blood, the Chinese tourist was removing the shirt very carefully, in the alley, such that the transparent chest-patch from Q branch was wrapped within it, and setting it aflame with a plastic lighter. Underneath the shirt was a pale blue one, which he took a moment to smooth out and button. 004 shouldered his heavy duffel bag, placed the black glasses carefully behind a crumbling crate, now every inch the small-time Chinese businessman here on a working holiday, and mentally reviewed the next person on his list.

3

_An excellent spy is sent to delicate jobs that can't be handled with all guns blazing: often, these are clean-ups, where the cannon has taken care of the big wolf, and all the hyenas are running scared, cornered, desperate, and very, very dangerous. They'll be looking for someone fitting their image of an excellent spy to kill, which is why MI6 doesn't send those on such missions. It takes a certain sort of personality who can go deep cover for months to root out all the fish that slip through the dragnet. Stable. Patient. And most of all, an excellent spy kills only those whom he is told specifically to kill. A high body count attracts the press, and the press and espionage have never gone easily hand in hand._

It was, to be precise, twenty-four days before the next mark was confident enough to go to a bathroom by himself. Just out of professional habit, 004 checked the nose and mouth of Ciavo with a little hand mirror, carefully recorked the killing syringe, put it in his pocket, and very unhurriedly and noiselessly climbed out of the unscrewed ventilation window.

The end comes to everyone in unexpected ways, 004 thought, and he felt it was really beautiful coincidence, that his name sounded phonetically like death, in the dialect of his ancestors.

4

_An excellent spy is a nobody who will notice everything._

The new receptionist, one very young and slightly mousy Miss Moneypenny, stopped in the middle of describing her woes with her new landlord (a prejudiced, old-fashioned dragon of a matron, it seemed) to giggle and blush. 004 didn't need to turn around to know who had walked by; however, MI6's handsome blonde poster boy, recently (in)famous due to certain clips of close-circuit camera film sent out to major news agencies, leaned over the counter, a roguish smile on his lips. "I don't believe I caught your name, Miss…?"

"Moneypenny," Moneypenny smiled, nervously, in the star-struck manner of young women on their first meeting with 007. 004 afforded his comrade (who certainly didn't know who he was) a polite smile; blue eyes fixed on him for only a moment, before dismissing him as unimportant (the FedEx courier, perhaps).

As he unobtrusively slipped away, he heard a playful drawl, "Who's that? Does take-out do door-to-door now?"

"Oh no," Moneypenny giggled again. "Mr. Tan works here too." Apparently satisfied that 'the Chinese man' was not in any way romantically linked to Moneypenny, 004 could tell from the faint change in 007's tone that the blonde spy was beginning to lose interest.

M was alone in her office: that was passing strange: another confidential mission, perhaps, so close on the heels of the previous one. 004 inclined his head to her, in silent greeting, and prepared his protest. "Congratulations on the execution of your Venice mission, 004."

"It was no problem," 004 said, in perfect, crisp English.

"I have another task for you. I am sorry, I know that you requested leave after Venice, but this is very important." M clasped wrinkled hands before her as she spoke, glancing down at the flatscreen computer fixed to her desk.

"If it is important, then leave is no matter." 004 stifled his sigh. The problem with MI6 was, however, any matter that M would allocate to a double-0 tended to _be_ of utmost importance.

"It's about 007," M said, quietly. "I need to know how he has acquired certain… highly classified information. Such as my address, and my security codes."

That was highly classified information indeed. 004 nodded. "I will see to it."

"Mention nothing to anyone else," M said, in a low voice. "I do not know if it was mere luck or boyish curiosity on 007's part, which I highly suspect it is; but a security leak of this magnitude cannot be ignored."

"Rest assured."

On the way out, Moneypenny, now alone at the reception, smiled apologetically at him, as if to apologize for her attention change, hesitated, then asked, "David, do you know of James?"

004 decided, given the success of his previous mission (which hinged on cleaning up the delightfully thorny mess that 007 had made of Venice and the Bahamas), that he was entitled to a little bit of minor revenge. "Oh yes. I am a good friend of Eric."

"Eric?" Moneypenny blinked, unable to follow the apparent non sequitur.

"Ah! I am very sorry. Please keep that to yourself," 004 appeared distressed. "Personal information is highly confidential, in MI6."

"Of course," Moneypenny blinked, slowly. "Oh. _Oh_. You mean, James has a… called Eric?"

"_Miss Moneypenny_," 004 hissed, looking around furtively (only slightly exaggerated).

"Of course. Mum's the word. I'll never mention it to anyone," Moneypenny promised.

A job well done, 004 thought, as he set off to the archives.

5

_An excellent spy always gets a job done where reasonable. And he will always have a concrete reason for doing what he does; and there is no better reason for working than dependents._

Tailing another double-0 was difficult, but it was not as though 004 had never done it before. Personally, he thought, as he mapped out the most probable routes that 007 could have taken in the map of London that he kept within his head, always keeping at least two blocks behind, the most difficult person he'd had to tail to date was likely 002, what with his penchant for rappelling across rooftops.

It was said that all the 00s were insane in their little ways, which was why they tended to be short-lived. Confirmed bachelors, most of them (but himself, it seemed): in the dead of night, with a little too much blood on your hands, without a family to go back to and kids to pay through college, sometimes the barrel of the gun seemed a little more attractive than it should.

Eventually, he narrowed it down to an exclusive if out-of-the-way area of the West End, nodded to himself, and left.

A couple of days later, when 007 left for China, he spent a few industrious days 'snooping about', as one would call it, in a variety of different costumes, especially as a prospective, recently migrated buyer of property, set a few devices unobtrusively in several lifts, and retired to wait.

6

_An excellent spy does not rely overmuch on circumstantial evidence to draw conclusions. Espionage, after all, hinges on concrete facts. _

004 was not particularly surprised, the night 007 came back from China, to suddenly see (on his laptop in his East End residence) the man push another person into one of the lifts to which he had installed a tiny wireless parasite camera and proceed to kiss the person silly. Automatically, he rechecked the lock to his study, revised the sleep schedule of his wife and children, then plugged in the headphones, angling the camera to try and get a close-up of the person's features.

He was a little surprised to realize it was a man.

He was _very _surprised to realize it was a man he recognized, and it took him a moment to place the name. Villiers. M's aide.

_Well, that could_ explain the security leak, 004 mused.

The camera also caught a good view of the apartment floor that the two men stumbled out to.

7

_An excellent spy trusts no-one fully. _

Since installing cameras in a double-0's residence would require said double-0 to be away on missions again or contain a high risk of getting caught, 004 settled instead for invading Villiers' privacy. The man was also a trained field agent, he noted from the file, though without double-0 potential, just relegated to aide and coordination duty by request. Further digging in the archives and a bit of private 'snooping' showed the reason as an ailing mother and therefore the need to have a stable, not-too-dangerous job.

The next day he was sent to Rwanda to extricate copies of certain documents before the latest diamonds field dispute erupted into a bloody war.

On his return, he dutifully gave out souvenirs to wife, son and second son, read a bedtime story to the littlest kid, kissed her on the forehead, and went into his study to check on the past week's recordings. He had deactivated the devices tracking 007, just to be safe, in his absence; Villiers', however, had several calls placed to a public phone in the country, which, on a rewind, were addressed to a very familiar, urbane male voice, mostly wry banter and arrangements to dinner.

The fifth recording was the proverbial gold nugget: "Look, I was crazy to have told you anything in the first place, M's still quite pissed over the last time you misused the information. Could you have been any less unsubtle, damnit?"

After listening to the entire series of recordings, 004 began to prepare his report.

An hour later, he paused when he saw 007 enter one of the lifts, then nodded approvingly, as his colleague, stretching out a kink in his back, froze, staring right up at the camera. He reached over to deactivate the devices as well as relocate their trace to a series of abandoned buildings scattered throughout London.

8

_An excellent spy possesses both sound intuition and judgment. _

004 stopped just outside M's office when he heard 007's voice raised in irritation. "..._why_ did you order an MI6 agent to spy on me?"

"Because I'm interested to know how you get hold of certain pieces of confidential information, 007," M's voice was calm. She didn't dispute the point. 004 retreated back to the receptionist, to talk to Moneypenny about the relevant differences of the Chinese and English Zodiacs, until 007 stormed out.

In M's office, he handed the manila folder in his hands to her, bowed, and left.

On the third day of his leave, picking out groceries from the supermarket via following a shopping list written by his wife, the kids somewhere amok about the store, his expression didn't change when 007, dressed unobtrusively (for the man) in a designer shirt and faded jeans, sidled up next to him, apparently following the labels of canned mushrooms with absorbing interest. "I know who you are."

"Mr. Bond," 004 nodded. If a double-0 said something along such lines, he knew that there was little use in arguing. "Help me get the canned Redfern buttons, would you?"

007 reached for the tin of mushrooms on the top shelf, tossing it into 004's trolley. "You've reported it already?"

004 nodded, pushing the trolley along. Tea was next on the list. 007 fell into step behind him. "If you dispute the report, take it up with M."

He could sense the tension; 007 was upset. And an upset double-0 tended to be a public hazard, not to mention that his children were about. 004 idly considered the needle hidden in his sleeve, then discarded the option. Double-0s tended to be good judges of character, and his trained ears picked up the patter of small feet, behind them, followed by a seven-year-old boy latching on to his leg. As he thought, 007 relaxed, forcibly. "Dad," Ken whined, "I want frosties."

"Your mum said it was bad for you," 004 pointed out, at the same time deftly preventing Ken from climbing into the trolley using the back of his knee as support. "Where's Anne and Dave?"

"Ice-cream section," Ken reported promptly, peering up at 007. "Hi. Are you a friend of Dad's?"

"Hi," 007 returned, slowly. "And yes I am."

"My name's Ken," Ken said, with all the self-importance of a seven-year-old boy. "What's yours?"

007 hesitated, then smiled (not the genuine one, but the cool mask of an operative, charming and unreadable). "James."

9

_An excellent spy understands the value of diplomacy over gunslinging._

With the children occupied in the playground, 004 sat next to 007 on a park bench. "How did you know? Villiers?"

"No. After the... lecture, I haven't been… well. He doesn't want to see me." 007 looked up, at the sky, a muscle in his jaw twitching. 004 understood: complicated relationships always seemed a little impossible, to the usual maladjusted double-0s, who had a tendency to walk away from a spat, subconsciously wary of their own capacity for lethal violence, rather than attempt to sort things out. And for someone as reputedly proud as 007, the logical reaction to rejection did appear to be an equal response. "I dug up your records and tailed you." Dryly. "I presume you did the same to me."

004 nodded absently, in clinical approval. He hadn't realized he had been followed. "And you decide to talk to me?"

"Do you know you're the only one of us with a family?" 007 asked.

004 tilted his head. "008 has an Italian background. No wife, though."

"That's what I meant." 007 exhaled. "You don't ever fear that..."

"Fear isn't a good enough reason not to have family," 004 shrugged. "But it would depend, on you. If you like chasing skirts with no strings attached: after all, married women will hardly be able to, say, insist you call them back, then it is your business. A stable relationship takes work."

"Why is it you are the only one who seems to be able to do it?" 007 shook his head.

"Ah. I am not afraid of work. Perhaps it is cultural." It took a brief moment for 007 to perceive the joke, but the laugh was forced. "You want advice. Meet him and apologize. Take him on a date. Necessary work." A quick smile, that didn't quite touch his eyes (though he did try; but of late, the few genuine smiles 004 felt he was entitled to were saved for his family). "But it does not have to be so bad. And he did not lose his job."

"Thanks to your recommendation, I heard." 007 drawled, and 004 felt that was likely the closest he could get to an apology, for the almost-scene in the supermarket.

"There's a new movie. Something about espionage and nuclear proliferation. Premiere with stars tomorrow night." 004 said, and it was as close to sympathy as he would give. 007 was young; and 004 vaguely remembered being young once, and madly in love with a sales clerk from a department store with a sunny smile and sensible shoes (only Dave had inherited her smile, sadly). "Around the corner there's an underground restaurant. Candlelight and jazz."

10

_An excellent spy knows when to pull himself short._

004 was busy filing the reports on his laptop in his study when he remembered he'd forgotten to disable and remove the devices in Villiers' department, what with all the excitement over his wife's promotion in the prosecutorial offices. Being possessed of a typically double-0 curiosity, he checked the feeds, and was in time to see the heat-sensitive camera in the bedroom switch on.

Within the next moment, he was very glad that his default setting on his camera feeds after tucking his kids in was headphone sound. Shaking his head slowly, he reached forward to permanently deactivate the Villiers apartment feeds, and chuckled, noiselessly, to himself, when 007 looked up from his work, licking his lips, blinked, and smirked, at the camera, and 004 guessed that was as much of a thank-you as he could get, from MI6's poster-boy.


	2. Credit

Credit

M's punishment for his latest international transgression was to force him to sit tight in London, under surveillance, with a mediocre allowance (credit cards and bank cards temporarily frozen, save for the payment of utilities) and absolutely no foreign travel, at least until the furor in the press died down (shooting up an electoral candidate of a democratic country, indeed. The delicacy of the matter had meant that MI6 was unable to reveal the reason, and so someone had to take the fall).

As if with particular malicious intent, she then proceeded to leave for a conference in Paris, taking Villiers with her. So much for his first avenue of entertainment.

James 'enjoyed' his first two days of leave by being heartily bored. Cable television stopped being entertaining after an hour, and he wished he were still able, in London, to trawl a pub and pick up a pretty face to play with until a mission grew so difficult that he would be entrusted with it. Since the last time he had angered (_really _angered) Villiers, however, James had been a little more cautious about the invisible line between what he could do that was permissible, and what would bring the aide just that one step closer to permanently walking out of his personal life.

In England, Villiers had made it clear (without actually saying so), James was _his_ (and vice versa), or there would be nothing more, between them (and that frightened him, sometimes, the thought, though of course he was too well-trained to show that).

Faced with such opposition, James decided that he might as well find a way to continue working… discreetly.

Besides, he told himself, he had left the job unfinished, in Cairo, and he disliked that (perfectionism, obsession, or sheer bloody-mindedness, he was not quite sure). Therefore, he would need money (and needing money was a fairly novel experience, to James), and the only people he knew offhand who had that much disposable income tended to have code names involving two zeroes in the front.

A judicious perusal of the nearest unattended computer of the records computer, using codes that he was not supposed to have, told him that 006 was still deep undercover in Mexico, 008 was on personal leave in Italy in the middle of the countryside, and all the other double-0s that he was even somewhat on good terms with were busy on a variety of missions scattered around the world. That left 004, who was on leave in London.

Damn.

004 was the only double-0 whom James did not particularly like: for the others, he knew clearly where they stood, in his prejudices (of which he had many). He had thought about this once, when freezing up in surveillance in Chechnya, and had decided that it was likely because 004 was the only double-0 who had no charm. It wasn't that the man didn't have it: he had seen it at work before, when the man was talking to Moneypenny, but on the most part, he didn't bother to use it. And why should he? 004 was the only double-0 who had a normal life, outside the job. James knew that if he checked, 004 probably even had normal friends (not the sort somewhat associated with MI6. After a while, double-0s tended to be a little wary of making close acquaintances with people who didn't know how the basic ways to get out of a pinch).

He didn't bother to deny that this didn't intrigue him. And that rather annoyed him.

Also, 004 had an annoying tendency to enter what Moneypenny had playfully termed 'wise Asian master' mode, where he tended to focus too much on translated proverbs or self-important truisms. It was the egotism inherent in any double-0, James knew (absolute self-confidence was part of a necessary component in a cold killer, which was what they were), only carefully masked.

That thought made him feel only slightly guilty, when creeping outside the man's home and considering exactly how to break in without undue damage or any noise made to disturb 004's family. The kitchen window, perhaps; but that could be dangerous, given how the children might go there for a midnight snack. The living room, then…

The curtained French windows over his head abruptly opened, which made him roll noiselessly to the side and flatten against the wall, then he relaxed, when 004 climbed out, walked over, and folded his arms. "What do you want?"

Being glared at by someone shorter than him and who looked like a small town Chinese grocer, complete with faded shirt and jeans, stocky build and glasses (likely unnecessary in reality) was a little disconcerting.

"How…"

"A man's home is his castle." 004 pointed at the bush. Almost imperceptible, unless you knew what you were looking for, was the faintest outline of a lens.

"I need some help," James said, unashamed of being caught red-handed in the act of attempted burglary.

004 looked at him for a long moment, then up at the second floor, where the darkened lights suggested that his children were sleeping. "All right. Come in. And do use the front door like a normal person."

--

Inside, 004 poured him a decent cognac, from the cabinet, then himself, before pushing a sleepy tabby off an armchair and settling into it. James himself chose the divan (the least cat hair), and sipped the drink. Asking for a martini would likely be pushing it, and he was aware that he was in another double-0's territory, another killer at least as good as he was, and it would not hurt to be polite, especially when asking for favors.

"Talk," 004 said, and he did, explaining (without the most confidential parts) the last mission in Cairo, what had went wrong, why it was not finished, and the annoying punishment. When he finished 004 settled deeper into the chair, and accepted the cat onto his lap. "So you want me to lend you money."

"I've just told you why."

"Did you tell M?"

"She said I was emotionally involved and to take a break."

004 chuckled. "When was the last time you took leave, 007? Real leave, not enforced leave?"

James shrugged. There was that time, right after the Le Chiffre business… but it hurt still, to think of a cold body drowned in the waters of one of the world's most beautiful and romantic cities. "Will you help me, or not?"

"I actually agree with M. You should take a break."

"She's off to Paris."

"So?"

"She took Villiers with her." James rather wished that didn't sound as petulant as it did.

That made 004 pause. "Oh." Then he added, dryly, "You do realize that the punishment you are currently under would be far worse for me, with my family to support? So why ask me to go against MI6?"

"You can pretend I didn't tell you why," James said, as persuasively as he could. "I'll even come up with a story you can use, if you want. Just lend me the money." His pride didn't particularly allow him to say 'please'.

"David?" A sleepy voice, from the staircase, stopped 004's retort. "You didn't tell me you were receiving guests."

A very pretty, petite Eurasian brunette, with large eyes and a sweet smile, dressed in a flannel robe; she wandered over and leaned against the back of 004's chair. "Hello, Mister…?"

"Maisy, this is James Bond. James, this is my wife, Maisy." There was an almost imperceptible emphasis on 'wife', and a flicker on 004's eyes, which said, very clearly, _I know where Villiers lives, and I know many ways of killing him, some of them very painfully, without being traced._

James toned down on the habitual charm, as he stood up to shake hands. "Pleased."

"And you're both drinking," Maisy said, in half-awake disapproval. "One moment. I'll be more human after coffee." She disappeared into the kitchen.

"She's a lawyer," 004 said, as though that explained the caffeine dependence. Indeed, there was a discernible difference, when Maisy returned with a cup, her eyes sharper, with keen intelligence, and James wondered vaguely how 004 managed to keep his life a secret.

That was answered in the next thing Maisy said. "James Bond, 007?"

James blinked, then stared at 004, who shrugged. His wife chuckled. "You do not need to look so startled, 007. I must say, some of your tangles gave MI6's legal department quite a few headaches, in arbitration and settlements. You could say that it was partly because of you that I decided to leave and become a prosecutor instead."

"One of…"

"That and I rather loudly objected to MI6's policy of taking on orphaned children, becoming their sole benefactor, and then using the loyalty a bereaved child has developed towards the kindness to turn them into killers," Maisy said, very mildly, placing a small hand on 004's shoulder as she did so (velvet gloves, and steel). "Named all manner of laws and conventions that were contravened."

"And then you married one," 004 pointed out, with a faint smile.

"What are you here for, though, if I may ask?" Maisy arched an eyebrow, before James could find a way to appropriately respond to _that_ little tidbit. "If it's anything confidential, I'll leave."

"Social visit," James said suavely, just as 004 murmured, "He wants to borrow money."

"Oh, _that_." Maisy chuckled. "So that explains the…"

"Yes." 004 smirked.

James found himself missing the subtext, which annoyed him (further), and he reminded himself, before he could make a properly vituperate reply, that he needed a (big) favor. He could be suitably sarcastic later, after the little issue of frozen cards was sorted out. His smile, however, was beginning to feel fixed.

"Haven't you given it to him?"

"Personally, I found it better to make him stew for a while. Builds character." 004 reached into the pocket of his slacks. A folded piece of paper was passed to him, which was hard and wrapped around something rectangular and flat. "The owner left this with me before he went on business. Do take care of it."

James opened the paper. There was a short, terse note written on it:

_I knew you'd try asking 004. Try not to bankrupt me._

Villier's credit card. James realized he was smiling, rather foolishly, in front of another trained killer and a lawyer (both chuckling at his expression), and in a very uncharacteristic, unprofessional double-0 fashion (but at that moment, he could not quite care).


	3. New Year's Resolutions

A/n: I just bought the original Casino Royale book. :3 All in all, I do agree, Daniel Craig's Bond is a lot more like the original (though a little softer still, and Casino Royale seems a little… wat… at points. Also, you see where they get the name Villiers from, lol (Amherst Villiers' supercharged Bentleys!). So I'll try to make James a little more like the 'original' one (i.e. colder, more sexist). Also, each time I get into a Craig discussion with various RL/net friends, it seems something immediately comes up and I have to leave the MSN convo. QQ.

02 Going to bed early doesn't help much.

New Year Resolutions

James would not have agreed to go for the New Year's company party if Villiers hadn't insisted on his company. Due to the necessary secrecy of MI6 it tended to take place discreetly within the Regent's Park building itself, in one of the secured function rooms, with everyone carefully checked for weapons beforehand. One could immediately pick out the double-0s; they were the ones standing unobtrusively in spots where they could keep most of the room in sight at any one point (terrible habit). Few tended to bring family, and again, given the aforementioned necessary secrecy, there weren't even any forms of eye-candy save employees of MI6 itself.

At least with the polonium incident he did not have to socialize overmuch this year with the curious; the crowd orbited the Head of S, trying to glean his opinion of the poisoning (though not confidential information, of course, too crass, that). So he hid behind one of the verdant indoor ferns near the caviar and wished the night over so he could collect on his… incentive.

Idly wondering how he could pull Villiers out of the uncomfortable function to an early night (and bed, sans rest and relaxation), he turned at the sound of the sharp clacks of approaching heeled feet, and smiled politely when he saw 004's wife, Maisy (perhaps one of the only non-MI6 significant others in the room, but he supposed she did not count; she _was_ once MI6, after all). Another woman in a man's job, this lawyer, and for all her pretty smiles and petite charm the steel was difficult to hide; eyes hardly lie. "I am surprised to see you here, James."

Surreptitiously, he checked the 004's location (south-east, chatting to 008, just so positioned that his peripheral vision tracked his wife) and then Villiers' (being introduced at three-o-clock to one of the new CIA liaisons), and permitted himself a distant smile. "Not particularly willingly."

"Ah yes, Amherst did say you would be difficult," Maisy used Villiers' awkward first name with the casual, efficient flair of an attorney, her smile was practiced, and spoke to James of a life spent in six minute legal checkpoints. He lazily wondered what it would be like to look into steel-soft eyes and bend the petite body back with his; then discarded the thought quickly with a thin smile, when he noticed 004 wandering closer in the ambit of his social arc.

"Evidently not difficult enough," he toasted her with an incline of his head and a tip of fine champagne. "Lovely dress."

"Why, thank you. I heard it's all the rage, this season." Maisy wore a silk Chinese-style dress with a demure collar and cream embroidery over black; bared sleeves caught soft highlights from the muted light, and when she moved there was the occasional flash of stockings. Had this not been England, he would have been vaguely tempted, trained killer husband or not.

Since it _was_ England, he settled for another helping of caviar, and rolled the salt pops with the crackled pepper biscuit in his mouth, and again wished the night over, setting his mind on auto. Women were easy to speak to, when there was only recreation. "It compliments your eyes."

"If I didn't know better, James…" Maisy's grin was purely playful, and she linked arms with 004, who had walked with characteristic double-0 silence up behind her, without even looking back. 004's expression was carefully neutral, as he inclined his head to James.

"Ten minutes to the countdown," he told Maisy, then turned to James. "She felt a watch would detract from the dignity of her outfit." The arch of both eyebrows said _women, eh_ with the (admittedly outdated, and habitual) disdain of the fairer sex in a dark profession predominantly populated by men in the double-0 echelons of MI6. James had never understood why himself; acquiring double-0 status, after all, mostly meant a willingness to kill, and that was not bordered by gender.

Maisy, of course, noticed the unspoken words (lawyer); she rested pale fingers on her husband's suit and chuckled. "Why would I need a watch, when others serve as such reliable time-pieces?" A sidelong glance at her husband spoke of foils being withdrawn for now, with the unspoken acknowledgment of old sparring partners.

James supposed it was just as well that it had never been his dubious luck to marry or get permanently involved with a woman. In England, where the double-0s retreated after often grueling missions to lick their wounds and rest before the next manila folder told them where to go and who to kill, the peace he needed to keep his sanity professional had no space for a woman, with the unnecessary complexities that romance and feelings required. With Villiers, needs were outlined plainly, clear lines were drawn, and he had the comfort of simplicity where needed. That was not to say there was no conflict, but where there was, there wasn't the multilayered nuance that James would have to study, were Villiers a woman.

His object of consideration eased over to his side, as though to greet Maisy, deftly not hinting at any relationship at all between himself and James outside of professionalism. "Maisy. I'm glad to see you."

"I did think M would pitch me out," Maisy agreed, with a wink and a brief glance over at the leader of MI6, the harshness of her profile unsoftened by the presence of colleagues, friends and good champagne.

"No, she has quite forgiven you," Villiers smiled, and James had to push down the impulse to grab the pale blue tie and pull the man down for a brutal kiss; his lanky form graceful in a suit, the curve of his arse visible under the hem of his jacket. "Any New Years' resolutions?"

Maisy replied with the expected, "Oh, to lose a little weight," just as James reminded himself that staring at the admittedly pert behind of M's aide was uncharacteristic for 007. The idle chatter, as both 004 and Villiers hastened to reply in the typically male manner of assuring Maisy that she looked great the way she was, bored him, making the aforementioned reminder a little more difficult to retain.

A little change in posture informed him that 004 was fast entering 'wise Asian master' mode, and upon questioned about his resolutions, launched into a lecture about the practicalities of _feng shui_ and how New Years' resolutions disrupted harmony. James had never been gladder for M's flat voice, amplified over the speakers, as she headed the countdown to the next year; all in the room turned to the stage, politely.

Just as the transmissions, wired to the overhead speakers, resonated with the boom of Big Ben, James slipped his hand down over soft fabric to the curve of the arse he had been trying not to notice too obviously, to the junction with legs, and rubbed lazily to the sound of a soft, stifled gasp, before moving away to raise his glass in a toast. Just before 'auld lang syne' kicked in, he heard Villiers mutter, "Incorrigible."

"Second floor reception," James murmured in return, deciding that there was no real need to actually have to get home before calling in his incentive.

--

"In here?" Villiers' first words were complaint, as James had thought, when pulled into the sterile, spacious disabled stall of the opulent second floor dignitaries' reception bathroom. Rose marble underfoot soaked a dim reflection as James latched the solid mahogany door behind them, walked Villiers into a corner and curled long fingers around the pale blue tie. Liberally ravishing soft lips with a growl teased a tremble, and arms curling over his shoulders; he pulled one thigh firmly over an elbow, and eased the other knee over the low gilt metal support bar that scored one cold wall. An upward grind of hips, and the chest behind his wrist heaved; fingers pulled awkwardly at his tie and fumbled through his short mop of hair (blonde again, after the last mission).

"Here," he agreed, breathless, as they broke for air, habitually cold eyes hard with insistent lust. "Now."

"Hardly comfortable or dignified," Villiers muttered, but did not resist when lips attacked his throat and his tie was undone, nimble fingers working buttons down a crumpling shirt. He growled, when his own fingers were batted away, arching down against another buck, his need hot and obvious against James' belly. 

"We can do comfortable and dignified afterwards," James whispered, reaching between them with his free hand and squeezing hard, absorbing the tremor with his longer frame and the choked moan with his lips, curling soft fabric over the jut of the ridge and roughly stroking the tip with a thumb, through the cloth. Villiers shuddered again, and fingers clawed over the back of James' tailored jacket (a habit now, after the Casino Royale affair). "Now it would please me greatly to fuck your lovely arse into the wall."

"Such language," Villiers admonished, though a quirk on lips swelling from brutal possession hinted at amusement. "Do you eat with that mouth?"

"I could compound the point right now by embellishing on that well-worn vulgar cue, and describe what else I could do with my mouth," James suggested, with another thrust, this time taking his time to rub hard, upwards, to a moan. "But I am sure you are already… very much aware."

"Yes," Villiers' eyes were downcast, fixed on the rough circles he was rubbing with the pad of his thumb, over the clothed erection. "By the way, you _are_ conscious that there… are cameras, about here…"

"There _were_," James corrected. Wadded tissue and aim born of half-remembered boyish pranks had served him well.

"Of course," Villiers said, with a hint of exasperation, "As though you could spend even New Years' without some form of property destruction."

"Temporary only, I assure you," James grinned, as he pulled Villiers' shirt out of his trousers, and undid the belt buckle, all with an unhurried languor that gave lie to the previous forceful demands, running a finger over the button and the zipper before working on them. Black briefs. Villiers blushed, under the slow scrutiny, and wriggled, when fingers traced the tight arc of cloth. James realized that he was purring, deep and sensual, as he placed the leg he held on the ground and turned Villiers around, pulling jacket and shirt off unmarked shoulders and hooking them on the door, then guiding hands to the support bar, as he reached in his pockets for condoms and the discreet tube (the Aston Martin was always a possibility, after all).

The little whimper and hips pushed back against fingers reminded James that not much preparation was really necessary, given that some final persuasions had to be used an hour or so before the party to a stubborn 007. Glad of how previous play had made it unnecessary to bother further with waiting, he prepared himself and pushed into snug heat with a grunt, his own tailored trousers pooled at knees, sliding a hand over the flat stomach to the dangling heat to toy dancing fingers over rubber-sheathed flesh. A whine, then, "More."

"M's birthday?" James grinned against the curve of a shoulder, as this caused a hiss of obscenity that would have surprised Moneypenny, from the prim aide, and he delicately pinched the tip of Villiers' flushed shaft, to another gasp.

"_James_." A growled warning, when he didn't move, then he obliged, with a dry laugh, expertly finding the necessary angle. It took him a moment, distracted by groans and rolling hips, to settle into a hard rhythm, one hand in a vise over a shoulder, the other working at flesh (slick-hot), driving into the arched body with half an ear for whimpered pleas with the sweet spice of almost-pain.

The rough pace forced pleas into low groans, fingers white-knuckled over the bar as hips were pushed back against his thrusts, shoulders savaged with pearl teeth. Ever the courteous British gentleman, yanks on sheathed flesh eventually dragged out a long, rasping cry of rapture wrapped loosely around a word that could have been his name; he rode the tremors with a savage smirk, then used the quivering heat with a few sharp snaps of his hips.

Afterwards, the few necessary details of cleaning up taken care of (he supposed it was really sloppy to dispose of used items in the same vicinity, but was quite unwilling to care, at this point), a dazed and haphazardly dressed Villiers dragged to the Aston Martin, he leaned over to purr into an ear, as he fluidly shifted gear to pull out of the carpark. "Happy New Years'."

Villiers opened his mouth, then thinned lips into line, eyes narrowed with exasperation, before leaning his head back against the leather seat with a ripple of soft laughter. "Let me guess. Your resolution ran something along the lines of 'have Amherst somewhere in the office'."

"It simply won't do, to waste time quibbling," James's smile was feral, with bared teeth, though he kept his eyes on the road, even when he felt a warm hand creep over his thigh.

"Breakfast in bed tomorrow. French toast," Villiers muttered, detailing the extent and form that an apology would have to take, then James saw swollen lips upturn into a warm smile that almost melted the final layer of ice he kept around his heart (what a disaster that would be, for a double-0). "Happy New Year, James."

-tbc-


	4. The very best part

Jan 05: You're so messy. Please, marry me.

A/N: Actually the 'tbc' in New Year's Resolution was a typo. / However, thankfully I got this plotbunny today…

The very best part

James loved this part of his missions best, where the villains were dead, imprisoned, or otherwise incapacitated, the deaths and the scorched memory of explosions but as fluttering leaves in the breeze, in his memory; where he could finally enjoy a walk in one of the world's most beautiful cities, with a pretty thing on his arm that he fully intended to bed tonight. The girl who currently decorated his side, finer than even the cut of his suit, had a tendency to giggle a little too much, but she had the face of a model and the figure of a dancer (the flexibility was proving… inspirational). Her low-cut, white designer dress revealed the curve of her breast and the narrow sweep of her hips to beautiful, beautiful long legs, elegant, fashionable, and young.

Besides, Paris in autumn was about one of the best places for romance that he could think of, and it just so happened that his mission had ended on its outskirts, in a gritty shootout with a shrieking female behind him and far too many men in ski masks in front. Now he needed to work out some stress before returning to England, M was happy (as much as she could be happy anyway, that old axe), and that meant his credit card limit was temporarily removed, which made him happy (and that was what was important, after all).

Strolling along one of the wide boulevards, bypassing a quaint café which he made a mental note to return to later, perhaps tomorrow after his slated rendezvous with the pretty thing in the hotel tonight, the perfect end to a stressful, dirty mission was spoiled by the sight of someone very familiar emerging from said café.

Villiers blinked to see him, as though surprised, then he glanced at the pretty model-faced girl on James' arm, and smiled politely, as though he were a passing acquaintance who admired his luck with women. James was mildly astonished to realize that there was nothing of jealousy or annoyance in the aide's expression at all, and even more astonished to realize that this realization… irked him, just a little.

His annoyance worsened when an Asiatic girl (likely a mix of Indonesian and Chinese blood), tanned and gorgeous in a thin, almost filmy white shirt and a short green skirt, with almond eyes and a curved bob of black hair, glided out of the café with feline grace and looped one perfectly formed, small arm in Villiers' elbow, murmuring something low in accented English that James could not quite catch. When Villiers laughed, James frowned.

"You definitely growled," the pretty girl at his side giggled, with a little tug on his arm. "Someone you know?"

James hesitated. "Only fleetingly," he said, dismissively and loud, and turned pointedly away, reminding himself that this was not England, and since it was not England, they had no business in each other's lives. He was uncontrollably angry now, and he disliked that feeling; disliked anything but a sense of lazy contentment, when enjoying his break before the next impossible mission.

The girl was staring at him quizzically, and she grinned, with the perfect smile of a woman who knew very well her effect on men, and liked to cause them trouble. "Introduce us. He's very cute."

_Perfect_, James thought, bitterly, but obeyed (English gentleman), allowing the girl to tug them to Villiers' side. The aide arched an eyebrow at them, but did not speak, allowing James to cue him as to whether he was wearing an assumed guise. "I was just telling James that he should introduce us," the girl on his arm said, with a blushing flutter of fingers. "I know so few people, here in Paris."

"I am British, actually," Villiers smiled, and shook her hand firmly. "Amherst. Glad to meet you. This is Zhiyi." He glanced apologetically and playfully at his companion. "Did I get that right this time?"

"No, but it's okay," Zhiyi replied, with a confident smile, and the women launched into typically mindless female chatter about Parisian shopping. James contented himself with the occasional glower at Villiers, who ignored him.

Eventually, when the women moved from perfumes to skirts to shoes, he muttered, "Excuse us for a moment. I just remembered, there is something urgent I have to speak to Amherst about."

"Sure," the girl said vaguely, before turning back to chatter to Zhiyi about the gorgeous designs native to Parisian fashion. James took Villiers firmly if unobtrusively by the arm, and half-dragged him to the alley behind the café.

The aide had the bloody gall to look amused. "Enjoying your holiday, James?"

"What are you doing here and who is she?" James bit out, before realizing that 007 certainly had no call being the 'jealous lover', and no right, at that.

"It happens to be a labor law right for me to be able to take leave as well," Villiers drawled. "Zhiyi is… a friend."

The pause was the proverbial straw on the camel's back: James growled, grabbed Villiers by the shoulders, shoved him up against the crumbling brick and kissed him roughly, angrily, hooking fingers into the cotton of the bloody ugly cyan shirt that the man was wearing. Hesitant hands stroked up expensive sleeves to the back of his neck, and _yes_, there was that little whimper…

James just barely stopped the hiss of 'You're mine', from his throat; instead, he snapped, "Where do you stay?"

Villiers looked irritated, then he frowned, as though there was something he felt he had to say. "Listen, James…"

But James was in no mood for recriminations or protests of how it would be terribly un-English and rude to strand two ladies in the middle of nowhere without an escort; he kissed the man again, for good measure, rubbing against him, and snarling into his ear, "_Where_?"

Villiers sighed, and named a passable hotel, which was fairly close by. "James."

"Later."

--

Once within the suite (seeing that it was for two pissed James off beyond measure), he pushed Villiers up against the door and ground his erection roughly against the aide's rump, listening to the little gasp with savage satisfaction. Certainly the man's body, at least, knew where its loyalties lay. "_James_. I need to tell…"

"You can talk to me about whatever it is _after_ I make sure you'll be far too sore to walk tomorrow," James hissed, reaching before the body sandwiched between his and the door and squeezing. Villiers shivered, and keened.

--

James was by habit and necessity a light sleeper: he sat up when he heard a faint noise coming from the entrance to the suite, as though someone opened the door. He spared the bed a brief backward glance at its other occupant, curled and deeply asleep, pale body liberally marked with bites and imprints that would bruise tomorrow (such a beautiful mess; warmth crept into his belly, if not his heart, but he forced his mind back to the problem at hand). Carefully getting out of bed, James reached for his Walter PPK under the pillow, and crept stealthily to the door. Dressing would only delay him, and perhaps make unnecessary noise.

A man's back was turned to him, at the bar, picking at the sugar packets. Since that did not appear like typical burglar or assassin behavior, James growled, "Who's there?"

004 turned around, wearing a shirt that managed to look even more of a fashion obscenity than the cyan shirt (ripped now, consigned to the foot of the bed): it was some sort of pink tie-die, worn over brown slacks and loafers, with a cane-weave hat. He arched an eyebrow at James' state of undress, and looked over at the small kitchen.

James followed his eyes. Zhiyi stared at him, then blushed furiously and averted her eyes.

"Get dressed," 004 drawled, "I am not lending you my hat."

--

Things seemed a little less insane and random when they sat around the couches with coffee. Exhausted from making good on his promise to Villiers, James realized he could only listen with a certain sort of detached professionalism when 004 related how the girl he had intended to sleep with just yesterday was really employed by SPECTRE, which was still embarking on its campaign to get him killed in a humiliating fashion. She would have injected him with infected HIV blood, while he slept.

"So we put out a little bait to lure you away from the fish," 004 said, with a little nod at Zhiyi. "This is Agent 4310, on vacation from Vietnam."

"Pleased to meet you," Zhiyi said, all trace of her accent gone, as crisp as 004.

"So what did you do to the bitch?" James asked, feeling a little off-balance and light-headed, which he blamed on the sex.

"Stabbed her with a tranquilizer and shipped her out for questioning," Zhiyi said promptly. "While 004 took out those who had been following you."

"Very professional," 004 said approvingly, and James was not quite sure who he was referring to.

"Actually, given how much of a softie Amherst is, I'm rather surprised he didn't try to tell you before we made the catch," Zhiyi mused out loud.

James was glad for his ability to school his expression, honed from gambling. "It probably slipped his mind."

-fin-


	5. Counting Games

08 A little Night Music

a/n: zz. Posting on fanficnet is a bloody pain. -- there's still something wrong with the ISP (though I think it's really SingNet and not Singapore in general… StarHub seems fine) and I can't upload anything properly, so I get bored and then before I know it I have two huge FFXII fics that I want to post up on for the record but am too lazy. -- Diplomacy and Primary Feathers, to be precise. Also, in a random unrelated FYI, I finally succumbed to curiosity and looked up what oubliette means, having seen it in the titles/descriptions of various fanfics. A dungeon with a trapdoor as an exit, indeed:3 As to 006, I liked Alec Trevelyan and do not intend to tie in anything further with Goldeneye.

Counting games

1 _Injury_

James secretly rather liked being injured in the course of action, and that wasn't in a masochistic sense. He supposed that there was really something a little of a Munchausen in him, that enjoyed all the attention from doctors, pretty nurses, and any number of sympathetic expensive female beauties, in lazy expensive private hospitals hidden away in the sprawling countryside. So long as the injury wasn't in any way overly crippling, permanent or humiliating, of course, and he knew that at least two of the other double-0s were the same way: 006 had even once attempted to submit a list of favored rehabilitation centres to M (and burned his fingers, naturally, on her acerbic tongue. _The whole point, 006, is for you to endeavor to escape unscathed._).

This time, with one leg and an arm broken (terrible fall from a low-flying helicopter, but the job had been done, even if the assassination had been accidentally messy), as well as any number of abrasions and bruises, he was a little annoyed when M decided that because his injury did not require specialized supervision, and because all the other double-0s were either on leave or occupied, that a thorough sweep of the remaining small fish was impossible, and therefore he would have to be kept close to home, under watch, and out of an accessible public area. James found himself with an frustrating choice: either have MI6 assign him a nurse, stay with 004 (good Gods) or submit a better idea to be vetted.

The thought of having an assigned nurse pottering about in the privacy of his bachelor's Chelsea apartment made him feel slightly ill, even though the apartment was new and had yet to be thought of as home. Moving from the West End place hadn't been necessary, since the one who had traced him there had been employed by MI6 (004), but his inbuilt and very developed paranoia had insisted upon it.

As to the second suggestion by M, 004 shot it down rather quickly, when called. "One of my kids is studying for O's." He paused. "Why don't you try Villiers?"

James hesitated. "I didn't think about it."

"Yes," 004 said patiently, and there was a background yell of "Dad! I don't understand this question!" to which by the suddenly muffled tone of 004's voice in instructing the child that he would help him in a moment James guessed that he had clapped a hand over the receiver. The interference cleared. "That's why I suggested it."

"I don't think he'll agree."

"Why?"

James wasn't sure how to describe his intuition to 004. The few times he had actually been invited to Villier's apartment, the man had been at least slightly drunk, and skittish in the mornings, giving the feeling that he couldn't quite hide his relief when James did leave, for work or whatever business he would give as an excuse. At the long pause, 004 finally added, "Or if you have any other… friends in London?"

"006 is on leave in New York. 008's mother hates me."

Another long pause, then, dryly, "Which 'phone are you using?"

"The one in the office, why?" The four surviving double-0s shared a set of offices and a secretary; given the low life expectancy, few of the desks save 004's tended to have any amount of personal effects, only dossiers and several reports that MI6 thought it necessary for their double-0s to read. Time spent in between leaves and the few missions that required assassins was slow and measured in esoteric topics.

"Be nice to visitors," 004 said mysteriously, in his 'Asian master' tone, and hung up.

Suddenly irritated, James slammed the phone down on the receiver, and sunk as deep into the wheelchair as he could to indulge himself briefly in a self-pitying sulk. Sympathetically, the current pretty secretary brought him a terribly maternal cup of tea and biscuits, and bustled back out to her desk (the secretaries allocated to the double-0s were always pretty and maternal and firmly disinterested, despite any attempts made on their virtues; James always thought it a device by MI6 to prevent their most dangerous spies from growing too bored in between missions).

Just before six, while reading a very long and needlessly detailed report on polonium (really, this polonium poisoning incident was blown out of proportion), the secretary's cheerful voice warbled through the intercom, "A visitor for you, Mister Bond."

"All right," James said, wondering who it could be. The double-0s tended not to have visitors; if needed, they would be summoned up to M's office, or to training. He blinked, when Villiers let himself into the office.

The aide smiled faintly when he saw James with the stack of papers in his lap. "Every time I see you actually working I feel surprised, somehow."

"There's a camera in here," James shrugged, still in a poor mood and therefore snappish, then remembered 004's last words, and their context. Bugged communications lines, a welcome visitor, and annoyingly sensible advice, come to think of it. He moderated his tone. "Head of S is making the most of this case."

"Very little from Mother Russia lately to occupy him, otherwise." Villiers pushed his hands into the pockets of his trousers, under his office jacket, a sure sign of uncertainty. James bit down on his tongue before it could say anything sarcastic or acerbic, and gathered his patience, reminding himself that if Villiers was to offer what he thought he was going to, it would prove to be an elegant solution. "Look, I heard you need to stay with someone trusted, when not at work. As much as I think you'll end up driving me up the wall by the end of the week…"

"I could kiss you," James laughed, with genuine pleasure, "But I think you'll have to walk over here for that."

2 _Relief_

The conviction that it was an elegant solution was short-lived. Villiers was skittish again, after having helped move James' luggage into the spare room; he picked at silver cufflinks and talked too much. He changed the subject whenever James attempted to insinuate a question as to reasons into the conversation, and eventually installed James in front of the modest television before retreating to shower.

Slightly confused, James resisted the urge to call 004 or 006, patted the old Burmese cat Colonel, which had taken up residence in his lap, and flicked distractedly through the various cable channels. Weather. Soccer. Gunslinging.

He would have enjoyed the expression of mixed irritation and amusement that darted over Villiers' face, when the aide later saw him, Her Majesty's Secret Service's best double-0, sound asleep in front of a panda documentary with an ancient cat grumbling over his knees.

3 _Water_

An assisted shower was sadly clinical despite attempts that grew increasingly halfhearted due to efficient rebuffs. Eventually James gave up and sat still on the edge of the tub under warm hands that massaged shampoo into his scalp. It was sensual, despite Villiers' obvious best efforts, and he was purring, in an absentminded hum, subconsciously, before he was even finished. Soap rubbed over old scars, on his back, down his spine, economical and non-exploratory and gentle over bruises and healing scrapes. An invitation to do the same to the front was dryly refused; with the pointed reminder that James had one hand free and certainly wasn't a baby.

A suitably forlorn look when Villiers stepped out of the tub behind him to grab a towel made the aide pause and exhale in exasperation. The towel was left in the sink, and James spread his thighs a little too eagerly when Villiers knelt down between them, white shirt and khaki shorts soaked from spray and clinging to his lanky form most indecently. Lust and pleasant surprise: the other man had never done this for him before, when sober, and the tongue that ran over hardening flesh was hesitant, fingers butterfly-light over hips and thighs.

When he purred, deeper now, Villiers muttered, "I hope you fall back and crack your skull."

4 _Wrong_

No sex in any form since that shower put James in a snappish mood after four days; any attempt at all to hint (sometimes heavily) that just because he was temporarily crippled didn't mean that he couldn't perform with some ingenuity was either sidestepped or shredded. He didn't push the issue about not sharing a bed. Unable to go to clubs and/or gamble without great inconvenience made him feel confined, especially how Villiers' apparent notion of things-to-do-after-work involved cooking, visiting his mother or reading quietly on the couch.

Finally, he asked, over a dinner of butter-tossed chicken pesto spaghetti, "Am I being an inconvenience?"

Villiers looked startled; the hunted impression crept into his eyes, however, even as he schooled his features quickly. "What makes you think so?"

"You don't want me here," James said, then added, when Villiers opened his mouth, "I know the feeling. I'm intruding on your privacy, and I didn't want a nurse for the same reason."

"Correct conclusion, wrong reason," Villiers said, and smiled. James stared at him until the smile wavered and disappeared.

"See, that was the first time you smiled since I moved in. What's the reason, then?"

Villiers looked down at his pasta, and prodded at it for a long moment. "You don't like commitment or complicated sentimentality. Our relationship had little of that, because it didn't have real intimacy. Now that's been more or less forced on us."

"Feels wrong?" James asked, more as a way to buy more time to think. He had not quite thought of it that way, but it was true. Something that rose out of nebulous convenience had stabilized into something comfortable, without intimacy, without complexities. Something warm and constant to retreat to when in London, England.

"No," Villiers said flatly, but refused to discuss it further.

5 _Work_

004 bustled back into the office on the fifth day, looking so tired with the dark rings under his eyes that the current pretty secretary (James was fairly sure her name was Miss Hacksbury, and maybe even a Jessica) pushed a cup of coffee into his hands and commiserated over the problems of having kids and leaving-school exams. After that, 004 stumbled over into his own office and promptly fell asleep on the desk, atop the files that James had (with an admitted degree of spitefulness) allocated to him to read from his own pile.

The stocky Londoner-Chinese spy woke up blearily for lunch and graciously accepted James' rather grudging offer to pay. He needed to talk to someone and he'd be damned if he would have to confide in the secretary; it'd be all over the powder vine in less than a day. MI6's only leak, he'd heard the Chief of Staff complain furiously to M over and over; it was one of his favorite topics, how the women gossiped happily amongst each other in the ladies' washrooms. M never paid much attention to his discontent: the information had never gotten out of the building, at least as far as they knew, and besides, she herself was privy to it, oddly enough, given her rank.

The canteen was relatively secluded. The double-0s tended to eat lunch later than the rest, to avoid the uncomfortable business of unavailable office girls fawning on their every word (at least, some days. 006 was known for enjoying it, when he was in a dark mood). James, not being particularly hungry, settled for toasted thick-sliced ham, butter lettuce and brie focaccia with coffee, while 004 reportedly ate the same thing every day: some sort of fried beef, egg and onion with flat rice noodles, today with the added extravagance of tea since he wasn't paying.

"What did you do wrong?" 004 started by asking.

"Why do you assume it was my fault?" James complained, realized he was sounding petulant, which would only amuse 004, and reined in the next biting remark. "Nothing. I just make him uncomfortable."

"He's probably just not used to living with someone," 004 shrugged. "Happens to us. I was that way when I first had to live with Maisy. Drove her crazy. After fighting on and off for a few months we talked about it and worked it out."

"Worked it out?" James repeated.

"It's all about space. Harmony. Like _feng shui_," 004 expanded, and James hid a wince. That was one of 004's favorite topics, but thankfully the man didn't seem intent on launching into one of his lectures. "You just need to find out how much space the other one needs, and respect it. Eventually it works out." He let out a low, dry chuff that was 004's version of a laugh. "Of course, it changes again once you have kids."

"I don't think that's it," James said doubtfully, thinking events over. "Seems more like he's afraid of something I might do." He related to 004 the awkward pasta conversation.

"You would really be better off discussing this with a woman," 004 muttered, eating delicately with chopsticks. "Jessica or Moneypenny."

"You know why I can't."

"Powder vine," 004 nodded, sounding a little aggrieved. News of his engagement, years ago, to Maisy, had spread across the vine like wildfire, and even the notoriously maternal double-0 secretary (at that time) had been engaged by the women to dig for details. James hadn't earned the double-0 number yet, at that point, and so hadn't known what 004 looked like (nor cared). Even when he had moved into the new office, he had never even seen 004 until the tracing issue, having always missed each other on different missions or leave times. "It's not much of a coincidence, by the way, how most of MI6's legal team is female. Hm."

"Besides, Villiers isn't a woman." James disliked Villiers' first name, and used it only where necessary.

"True," 004 conceded. "I've always thought that same-sex relationships have always had that bonus. In that case, he's probably just worried that you moving in with him, however temporary, might be changing something comfortable into the unknown. That's all. It can't be something unnecessarily complicated."

6 _Words_

James tried being uncharacteristically submissive and quiet all the way from the drive to Villiers' apartment, even through the shower and the eventual installation in front of the television. Eventually, as he'd thought, he unnerved Villiers enough for the man to walk over to him from where the aide had been shooting glances at him all evening from the couch, and ask, "Something happened at work?"

James shook his head, and changed channel. Villiers took the remote from him and stared at him, then added dryly, "Either that or you're trying to be childish by giving me the cold shoulder."

James returned the stare evenly, until Villiers looked away, then he said, quietly, "No." And grabbed the remote. The next channel was CNN, discussing the interminable exchange of slightly ludicrous American pre-election politics. When Villiers sighed noisily and made as though to return to the couch, he added, "I'm bored."

That brought out a faint, fleeting grin, which James didn't expect, having intended to push Villiers into something resembling anger. His next words were in a playfully patronizing drawl over the coarse Texan slang in the background; it annoyed James (backfiring plans, there). "Want some warm milk?"

The only graceful way out of this was an excuse and an apology, as much as it rankled. James forced a smile. "Sorry. I'm used to routine games of bridge or poker every week at Blades or Brook's. I'm not much of a television person."

Villiers visibly relaxed, and looked apologetic. "Oh. You could have said something, I would drive you."

"I can't play properly with one hand," James brushed it off brusquely, already a little guilty about the lie, but couldn't really bring himself, as a gentleman and as a matter of pride, to say anything about being frustrated (with Villiers' odd attitude, as well as sexually).

Perhaps too brusquely. Villiers shook his head, wrapped arms tentatively around James' shoulders, and pushed his nose into the drying crop of tawny hair. "I'm sorry to say this, James, but I don't want to get too involved, with a double-0."

Of course. James glanced down, at curling fingers, and remembered 004's words. It couldn't have been anything too complex. This was a refrain, 006 had told him, a few days upon gaining double-0 status, that would haunt him throughout the few scattered and mostly emotionless affairs that were the only comfort he could afford throughout his career as a double-0 until his eventual early death. Besides, he had never thought more of this particular relationship, had he? Even the ugly, jealous anger he had felt in Paris was an incident that they never referred to afterwards.

He was silent too long; the circle of arms tightened a little. _I've hurt you: I'm sorry._

But not sorry enough to unsay the words, only to wish him healed as quickly as possible so that they could both escape this enforced intimacy. James tapped fingers in a broken impatient staccato on the metal curve of his wheelchair. "I understand."

7 _Friend_

M hadn't looked surprised at all when James tendered a change of plans with a request for a nurse to his Chelsea flat. Behind her, Villiers' eyes flickered, but that was all that changed in his expression.

Upon his return to his flat, he was deeply annoyed to realize that the 'nurse' looked familiar, and it took him a moment to place her name. Zhiyi. The pretty Indonesian Chinese who had been part of the two-step lure that had drawn him so well away from the scene, in Paris. She smiled quickly and efficiently and gave a short brief of her qualifications, advised him that she had security covered, invited him to check, then bustled off to continue cooking, all the while unperturbed by his irritable and undoubtedly rude silence.

Dinner thawed him a little despite his best efforts. Melt-in-the-mouth oven-baked lamb cutlets with a delicate herb-lemon sauce, buttered asparagus and creamy mash. On his startled surprise at the quality, Zhiyi grinned. "My hobby," she admitted. "Also, when I was a child my mother forced me to learn. Part of a necessary set of wife-skills, it seems."

"Relegated to nurse-skills?" James drawled, and her grin widened.

"A favor for an old friend, why not," Zhiyi said, and winked, when James arched an eyebrow. "I'm even being paid my normal salary. You double-0s must be like celebrities."

The reminder of his double-0 status and its accompanied effect on his personal life, as well as the 'old friend' comment diffused his good-humor at the fare; he nodded curtly and bent his head to the asparagus. Zhiyi sensed the change in mood, connected it with a woman's annoyingly quick perception to James' change in living arrangements, and apologized. He accepted. They ate. During the bath, James, not possessing any real sense of shame, wasn't uncomfortable with feminine aid, though he didn't purr, and Zhiyi was professional in her caregiver role. No desire. James considered that when he was dressing, looking so distracted that Zhiyi giggled, when she helped him into the wheelchair.

"Maybe I should be insulted," she suggested, with a wink, as she wheeled him into the study. "Though I guess maybe you can somehow sense that I'm single."

"Not my type," James agreed, relieved at her easy humor and the proffered way out. It would have been difficult for his masculine pride to accept any other reason, such as 'conditioning', or 'sentiment'.

8 _Wish_

Zhiyi was a godsend. With good food, conversation and an introduction to the joys of online poker (how crass, but one didn't need two hands to click a mouse), being an invalid in London didn't feel quite so much of an inconvenience, especially when the bruises and scrapes healed. Soon even the unexpected sting of Villiers' words faded, and then 006 was back in the office, brash and chatty and attempting to steal kisses from Jessica-the-secretary. He was closest to 006, the other blond spy, who had Cossack blood in his veins (Head of S disliked 006 on principle, but had to concede his loyalty, at least for now).

"Not dead _yet_?" was Alec's characteristic greeting, as he was clapped on his shoulder roughly enough to jar the final remnants of bruises.

"Neither are you," James retorted. The inconvenience and indignity of the wheelchair was duly laughed at, and then he asked, "How was New York?"

"Great. I love the city. So many different types of people packed together like sardines. Biggest atomic bomb capitalist target on this earth," Alec said, and smirked at Jessica's ladylike squeak of indulgent horror. "Don't tell Head of S, he'll throw me out on my ear."

"Let me guess. You got bored of breaking hearts."

"It got to the angry telephone stage, then I decided to jet and come back to help you with the work," 006 agreed, and glanced over at 004's disapproving stare. "Good morning to you too, 004. Good Gods, there are three of us in the office at the same time. The world must indeed be nearing global harmony."

"The reports you must read are on your desk," 004 said flatly, and closed his office door with a critical snap.

006 stuck his tongue out at it, to another squeak of laughter from Jessica and a rueful shake of the head from James. "I'll buy you lunch," he told James, heading obediently towards the stack of folders, "And then you can give me the details about the pretty nurse you're living with." He winked. 006 knew all about Villiers and what he called his English Totalitarian Regime. James threw him a mock-scowl.

9 _Week_

As he had thought, 006 insisted on following him back to the apartment, ostensibly to see the new place but really to check out the 'pretty nurse'. Who he then proceeded to flirt with, outrageously, throughout dinner. Zhiyi was amused, unreceptive, and proceeded to shoot down Alec's suggestion that _he_ would also like an assisted bath. Alec duly retreated to lick his wounds, professed undying love that would probably last, James calculated, for perhaps a month or so, give and take missions, and went home. Zhiyi breathed a sigh of relief.

Around mid-week, for no reason at all that he could fathom, Zhiyi abruptly insisted that he call Villiers, to 'talk', glowered when he refused, pouted when he refused again, and then, in a show of remarkable childishness, threatened to cry. He caved, to his profound inner annoyance.

Villiers picked up with a cautious, "James?"

"Uh. Yes," James glared at the triumphant Zhiyi, curled in his new patent leather armchair with a thick novel, and she grinned at him with a thumbs-up sign.

"Is something wrong?"

"No," James wondered exactly how he was supposed to 'talk'. It was rather difficult to think of anything but how the line was probably not secure. In a rather knee-jerk reaction, he settled for the easy, very male way out of an awkward forced telephone call of which he had no idea how to lengthen. "Are you free tomorrow for dinner?"

By the widening of Zhiyi's grin, he realized to his irritation that she had certainly planned for that all along. _Women._

Villiers hesitated, then said, very wryly, "Please pass me to Zhiyi."

James wordlessly held out the handset. The grin vanished, turned into a pout, and she took it with little grace. "Hello, Amherst. Yes, I did. No, I had to threaten to… yes. Yes, I know, but it was the only way. No, that was his doing. No, _seriously_, Amherst, I heard that you were moping about the office. Yes, the powder vine. Why, such language from you, of all people! All right, I'll pass you back." The handset was pushed back into James' hands, before he could properly absorb the tidbits.

"James?" Villiers sounded a little more tired now. "All right. Tomorrow. After work." He hung up before James could respond. Zhiyi gleefully ignored him for the rest of the night.

10 _Music_

The muted elegance of Gordon Ramsay on the Royal Hospital Road complimented its exceptional if pricey fare. After a salad of red mullet with aubergine caviar, then lobster ravioli and a dessert of Crème Brûlée, linked by slow jazz, the uncomfortable silence melted to a mellow wine-enhanced good-humor, and Villiers slouched out of his perfect posture on the cushioned chairs. "How do you find Zhiyi?"

"Fine," James said, then added, "Though you might want to warn her about Alec."

"She knows," Villiers said, with a wry smile. "I'm afraid to say that you… lot tend to have a traditionally notorious history with women." Habitually cautious in public.

"I wouldn't exclude men," James said, as offhandedly as he could, then added, when Villiers stilled, "Of course, Bill's mother already hates me enough, so I wouldn't go telling her about my suspicions of her precious son." 008's true name, of course, wasn't 'Bill', but it was his conventionally accepted one, over his slightly more unpronounceable Italian first name.

"James," Villiers said quietly, "I wanted to apologize for the… last few days, when you were staying with me. It was unprofessional and likely very uncomfortable for you."

James considered his reply carefully. He wasn't even upset about Villiers' response any longer, that time; he had wryly accepted it as a fairly inexorable one, given his notorious weakness for women, which he would find near impossible to give up. Even if Villiers had been willing to commit to the low life expectancy, he had to know that like all other double-0s, James' heart was irrevocably cold. A killer's ruthless heart, that had no real space for any real sort of profound sentiment. So he smiled, and said, in a gentle tone that implied forgiveness, "I was rather hoping you would be more unprofessional, actually."

"That much was obvious," Villiers relaxed further. "And will have to wait till you've recovered."

"It doesn't have to," James suggested, with a little purr.

Villiers shook his head, with a chuckle. "Serves you right today, James, for treating me to this extravagance. I'm so full I only want to sleep."

"There's always tomorrow morning."

"You're oversexed," Villiers said, in a tone of maidish irritation, but the speculative gleam in his eyes (so quickly hooded) was certainly promising.

11 _Night_

Watching Villiers, with his odd lanky grace (the juxtaposition of words quickly forgotten, within the next moan) lower himself down with his head thrown back on James (swallowing heat) was, he decided, the most erotic thing he had ever seen in his life. Long fingers curled in the sheets, his lip bitten under white teeth, pale skin flushed in the dim light of the reading lamp, thighs carefully arranged to avoid casts and the greenish echoes of bruises. The low sigh of relief and pulsing heat caught in the curled fingers of his good hand told James that the enforced celibacy has not been particularly easy for the aide, either, and that was balm to his pride, at least.

He leant forward to tongue the column of neck to jaw, and the developing bristle of stubble, nibbled, smirked as Villiers (trying so hard not to touch him any more than necessary, for fear of accidentally brushing healing scrapes), writhed, gasped a protest when James marked his neck with liberal bites (a scarf tomorrow would be hard to explain, hah) and whimpered again. James was familiar with this particular primal rhythm, as he braced legs, ignoring the jolt of pain from the injured limb, and rolled his hips roughly upwards, to fingers raking through his hair and his back and a delicious, hungry cry from the man impaled in his lap.

"When I recover," he growled, against the hollow of the rippling neck, rolled his hips again, then proceeded to describe, in explicit detail, exactly what he wanted to do once he had use of his arm and leg again. Villiers stopped him somewhere amidst his description of exactly what he wanted to do to the aide on the kitchen counter with the press of lips hard against his mouth (a man's kiss, and he responded with another growl, wresting dominance).

He revised his opinion about 'most erotic thing' when Villiers began to move above him, shy at first, with the novel position, then with building confidence.

Afterwards, he caught the heavily breathing body in the curve of his good arm, and played with fingers, sucking deliberately at each digit as he held Villiers' dazed eyes with his gray-blue ones. All these little games, with needless meaning, against the warmth of uncomplicated need. _Tinker, tailor, soldier, spy._

-fin-


End file.
